B n' H
by The Once and Future Prophet
Summary: What would you do for the ones you loved? Well, Dr. Quinnzel? Do you even know who those are anymore? Let us start at the beginning: you were looking for Batman.
1. Chapter 1

_AN;__ This story excites me because I can make just about anything happen if I chose. Infinite possibilities and likewise infinite repercussions are the butter for which my bread be covered. For instance, and this is important if you want to read this story, 'B+H' does not follow any one continuity within the DC universe. It takes elements from the classics, New 52, Earth One and the Arkhamverse to name just a few. So some events may have occurred, some not, or they may have occurred but with totally different details and effects. For now, just picture that both Batman and Harley are from the 'Batman Animated Series', though that will change over the course of the story._

_Also, the rating and the genres may also change as we progress, so be warned._

**Nature vs. Nurture Arc**

Batman, secretly the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, had devoted decades of his life in attaining the peak capacity for physical, mental and spiritual performance. He had fought crime in Gotham, staved off threats to the entire world and had even prevented galactic destruction by traveling through time as a living bomb. His rouges gallery could literally fill a book and his friends and allies were the closest to gods that any mortal could dream to achieve. He was the spirit of the night, unflappable in even the direst of circumstance, unwavering in his quest for justice and his fight against crime.

"Huh?" was all he could manage.

The reason for his confusion was that one of his above-mentioned villains, Harlene Frances Quinzel, a.k.a. Harley Quinn, had just asked for his help. Begged more like it. She had set an elaborate trap involving an endangered 'citizen', really just one of her henchmen, and had immediately accosted him as he arrived in usual fashion of fluttering material and a shadow that seemed to just drop in from the sky.

Expecting a fight, he had been forgivably taken aback by a teary-eyed Quinn as she blubbered like a child that had skinned her knee. The plea for help was obvious, but Batman was nothing if not suspicious. He and Harley had been on opposite sides of the law for near enough ten years for him to no longer count. Chances of rehabilitation for the former psychiatrist were barely even feasible after half a lifetime of crime and killings.

And yet here she was, crying to her worst enemy in hopes of assistance. Bruce's first thought was to twist her arms around and cuff her and drop her on the GCPD's front step. But, on retrospect, every one of the scant few times she or other such villain had sought his help, it had usually been genuine, at least until his help was no longer needed at which they betrayed him readily. But he had always harbored a spot of pity for the tragic ones, like Harley, of Fries.

"Harley. Harley!" He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until the tears had stopped and she was looking at him mutely, inky tracks of runny make up leaving her chalky face a mess. "Tell me, in a concise and calm manner, exactly why you need help, why you sought me, and why I should care." She swallowed that hard lump that always appeared after crying, mentally readying herself for a conversation with the Batman.

"Mistah' J has been missin' fer weeks, longer than he's ever been away. At first I thought it was just him cookin' up anotha' plan ta kill you or Commissioner Gordon, or release his gas in tha' city. But I haven't heard anything about him through any of our contacts, or even the others like Cobblepot of Pammy. He's just gone!" She exclaimed growing hysterical again. Bruce quickly subverted this with a slap. "I needed that," she admitted.

"I haven't heard anything on the Joker in two months," Batman agreed, beginning to wonder exactly what the Clown Prince of Crime was up to now. He had done this before, usually before orchestrating and performing an atrocious act that nearly pushed the Batman into snapping the smiling criminal's spine like so much kindling. The most vivid in his memory was when Jason Todd had been beaten near death before he and his mother had perished in an explosion. He couldn't let that happen again.

"Have you learned anything else? Anything that might pertain to his disappearance?" He probed. Quinn thought for a minute, no doubt have only focused on Joker the whole time.

"A few of tha' others have up and vanished as well; Scarecrow, Croc, and Zsasz over the past couple a' months. Didn't think nothin' of it then, but now I think that there's a connection now that you mention it."

Again, Batman confessed that he hadn't heard anything of the other villains either. It seemed that they had just fell of the face of the Earth, somewhere where even his vast resources couldn't follow. Usually.

Releasing his hold on the blonde, he began to ponder the situation thoroughly. Whenever any of his nemeses pooled resources against him it usually spelt trouble. But five of his worst were unaccounted for and that was a possible catastrophe for Gotham. This was something he couldn't dare to neglect, for fear of the casualty rate of civilians caught in the cross fire. So far, his only lead was Quinn, having done her own investigation into the matter, if only to find the Joker.

"Red Robin," Batman spoke through his com-link. It took a few seconds for the voice recognition system to patch him through to the right receiver, but soon enough he could hear the very familiar sounds of a brawl.

"What's up boss?" Tim Drake cheerfully quipped, obviously untroubled by his current predicament.

"What's your current status?" Bruce asked back, getting a queer look from Harley, who could only see the Dark Knight talking to himself.

"Riddler thought it would be funny if he stole the Gotham Reserve. Unfortunately for his question marked butt, "asparagus" wasn't a very difficult answer." There was another cry of pain from one of the thugs the teenager was facing, probably a dislocated wrist by the sound of it.

"I've found something that might take me into a long-term investigation. Could you cover for me for a little while?"

"Sure thing. I might need to contact another previous boy wonder but I can handle it. What's the case?"

"Joker, Killer Croc, Victor Zsasz, Scarecrow and Scarface gave all gone missing over the past few months. I thought it was probably nothing but another of their poorly conceived team-ups, but Harley Quinn just contacted me asking for help in finding the Joker."

"And she is not likin' this conversation that she can't even hear!" Harley shouted to be heard on the comm. Batman gave her a withering look, but she only seemed to get more annoyed by this, having learned long ago that his punches were far more painful than his looks.

"She actually asked for your help?" Tim guffawed, followed by the distinct 'thwack' of a metal rod connecting with an unprotected shin.

"Yes, even making up a false hostage situation in public to get my attention. I think I hear sirens now." At his words, Harley began to look nervously around for the source of the sounds, but remarkably enough, didn't flee.

"Can you get your little chat done with so we can get outta here?" She pleaded, shifting from foot to foot.

"I'll let you know when I have more," Bruce signed off from the link and again turned to look fully at the Joker's girlfriend/punching bag. "'We'?" He inquired flatly. She glared at him before poking him in the chest.

"Lookee her Bats; if they's really missing and not for a slumbah party, than I need to find Mistah J and fast. You need all the help you can get and I have the connections with the underground that you can't even touch without the rest of us knowing so don't even try!"

Bruce felt his patience waning the more she spoke. It was true that all of the major villains had some kind of system to alert each other of his appearances when stopping some big heist or kidnapping, preventing him from tracking the others down for days. It was infuriating at best and an absolute nightmare at worst. If Harley could indeed contact this network for news, than she was still valuable to this investigation and not yet a liability.

Making his decision just as the first squad car rounded the corner towards the now cleared out carnival, Batman grabbed Harley around the waist and fired his grappling hook upwards towards the gargoyles of a nearby building, the two of them zipping into the air in a flash, leaving a very annoyed thug dangling over a pit of water which had supposedly been filled with piranhas, but they hadn't had the money for them and Harley wasn't trying to kill him in any case. Just leave him for the pigs.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"It's been awhile since I've been in this wagon," Harley murmured, eyeing the inside of the Batmobile eagerly, red light making her usual make up appear more gaunt than usual. Behind the steering wheel, Batman tried to forget that experience as best he could, though to little success as the harlequin kept blabbering on about "good times". Not the choice of words he would have used, but hey.

"Tell me where this network is; we can get that over with now and you can enjoy your padded cell at Arkham again until you somehow bust out, **again**." Harley shook her head at him, pigtails waving obnoxiously in the cramped space.

"Doesn't work that way at night. If one of us or the boys comes a' callin at night, askin' questions about each other, they's supposed to assume that you made us come or are otherwise involved. See, we only get the warnings at night 'cause that's usually all we need. We can go there in the morning."

Batman nearly jammed the brakes in right there, but years of experience allowed him to keep most of his composure as he rounded on the blonde, auto-pilot taking over for a bit.

"In the morning?! Do you expect me to tolerate you until sun up?" Now she was shrinking away from him, having nowhere to escape from his wrath to. But, admirably, she didn't start crying again.

"It's the system. We know you don't operate in the day as much so we made it that way. Well, truth be told it was mostly Hatter, Eddie n' Clayface dun thought it up," she admitted quietly, apparently forgetting that she was revealing one of their greatest assets against him and his crime fighting family. "We named it 'The Bird Watch'. Sneaky right?" She elbowed him, attempting to extract a compliment. Another glare was sent her way.

"Bats are not birds," he stated simply.

"Y' see, that's the beauty of it; we're all talkin of birds when really we mean bats, robins, all of 'em." She adopted a deeper voice, apparently trying to mimic Clayface. "Oh are you coming to the bird watch later? I heard they discovered a new breed of sparrow by the Felton Building on Wednesday."

Batman blinked in surprise. He occasionally added the Felton Plaza as part of his patrol route, and if what Harley said was true, then the criminals were watching him and learning his schedules. That was a disturbing fact, but one that clicked with other bits of information he had accumulated and theories he had crafted.

"And what if I make someone tell me the location of The Bird Watch?" He inquired. She seemed all too willing to spill the secrets of this dark network.

"Well, it changes locations every few days or so. And if we catch wind of Batman, you, snagging someone who knows the current location they immediately close up shop and go to mattresses for awhile. So even though Imma gonna take you's to The Watch tomorrow, the place'll be cleaned out come midnight and you won't have a lick of a clue to track 'em."

Well, that explained why she seemed so open right now. She hadn't been carelessly throwing away secrets that were invaluable, but rather ones that he would feasibly acquire on his own. Perhaps she was insane, but she wasn't nearly as stupid as she seemed.

"So where are we shacking up for the night?" Quinn quizzed, looking out the window as streetlights zoomed past like shooting stars. She had a point. He couldn't let her loose for fear of collateral damage she may cause, and he couldn't take her back to the Batcave for obvious reasons. That left him with very limited options.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Carlton Milton had lived in Gotham City for the past twenty-two years of his life, and he had been the owner/clerk of the "Nighty-Night" hotel for the past twelve. Very rarely had anything of import ever happened near his off the way street, even with the notorious villains and criminals running around the dark city. Perhaps the most noteworthy event was when they had seen Batman and Catwoman chasing each other high up on the parapets of the nearby skyscrapers.

Tonight, he was sitting behind his lonely desk, looking over last week's half-finished crossword puzzle. '19 Down, fast paced songs from the play depicting the comical pirates of this region.' He heard the door chime as someone entered his little abode, but he was too focused on the puzzle to look up, merely sliding an information card and pen across to where the newcomer could fill it out. 'Eight letters.'

"I believe the answer is Penzance," A deep voice supplied. Looking closely at the column of empty squares, Milton wrote down the name and was overjoyed to find that it fit perfectly.

"Hey, thanks mister-"he looked up and stopped in mid-sentence as he beheld the world's greatest detective finish filling out the card and held it for Carlton to take back, which the older man did, eventually, after simply gawking at the specter of the night. "Room 16," Milton weakly mumbled as he handed him the key to his room.

"Thank you. Good night," Batman responded, seeming to bleed out of the room like a shadow, heading towards the stairs with a red and black clad figure Carlton had previously overlooked . She gave him a jaunty wave before skipping up the stairwell under Batman's watchful eyes.

Carlton Milton leaned back in his office chair, exhaling slowly. One of his tenants was the one and only Batman. Looking down at the info card still in his hands, he vowed to have it framed the very next day and hung right above his desk for everyone to see it. But first, something of high importance called that he could not in good faith ignore.

'33 across, a self-contained country within a country, eleven letters.'


	2. Chapter 2

"Well this is cozy," Harley remarked wryly, scanning the moderate sized room. There was a large bed in front of the TV with a phone on the nightstand, a side door leading into the bathroom, a miniscule kitchenette with a list of phone numbers for local restaurants laminated onto counter. There was a distinct lack of closet, but there was a clothes rack visible from inside the bathroom door, so there was that.

Kicking off her jester shoes, Harley gleefully scooted across the carpet towards the bed, finding rapture in the material against her bare feet. Eventually having her fill in that, she lept onto the bed let loose a drawn out sigh of contentment. Ever since the Joker had gone missing she hadn't had a good night's rest in weeks, let alone on a cushy bed.

Looking back, she saw that her temporary roommate was scanning the walls and decorations with what was probably a bug-detector. He was all business, like usual and that was just boring. Snatching up one of the two beige pillows, Harley chucked it at the caped crusader with accuracy born from wielding an excessive hammer.

As she had suspected he might, he ducked under the projectile and came up with three batarangs in his free hand. She couldn't hold in the snort of laughter at the spectacle and rolled across the sheets until she fell off the opposite side, Batman glowering at her before returning to his sweep.

As Harley got back to her feet, or rather her knees as she had bound back onto the bed, she decided that first shower was hers. Nabbing her PJs from her ever present knap sack (under the exploding pie and right next to the hyena collar) she skipped happily into the bathroom, closing the door with a precise kick. Humming to herself, she pulled the middle towel from the neat stack above the toilet, effectively rumpling the others and destroying the any semblance of order.

The shower came alive with a hiss, steam already rising from the hot water. Quickly stripping out of her one piece suit and discarding it towards the door, she eased into the stream, basking in the warmth previously lacking in her form. Taking a few minutes to simply enjoy the water, she reflected on what had happened so far tonight.

She had actually resorted to contacting the Batman in order to find her lover, an act that the Joker was sure to find very un-humorous when they at last found him. But she was desperate, and she knew all too well that if anyone could find the mysteriously vanished Joker, it was Batman. Bunking up with the man was definitely unexpected, but nothing she couldn't handle.

Shaking those thoughts, Harley scrubbed her face with a washcloth, taking away the white and black make up she had applied that morning. Watching as the Rorschach of color slipped down the drain, she retrieved the generously supplied hotel shampoo bottle and squirted a good-sized dollop into her palm. With that palm full she thoroughly washed her bright blonde hair, singing out loud while she did so. _Spice Girls_ hadn't been her thing in a while, but the knowledge that Batman had to endure it was well worth the vocal work out.

Eventually the water stopped and she stepped out of the shower glistening, clean and mercifully warm. Draping the towel around herself, she got a smaller one from the already disheveled patch and dried her hair with it before discarding it behind the door. Next she took a brush to her hair, straightening out the shoulder length locks that she had had in twin ponytails for the last couple of days. A grimace played across her face at the pain it caused, but took solace in knowing that at least she was actually taking care of herself. Her personal image wasn't something she had been worrying about since she had decided that the Joker was well and truly missing even after one of the more sympathetic goons told her that she looked wrecked (god rest his soul).

Finally, her grooming was finished and she slipped into her waiting pajamas; a single piece zip-up with pink 'fur' and dozens of little hearts scattered across the body. Snug in her "lovey-dovey armor", she exited the bathroom to find Batman standing by the window, apparently engrossed in another comm-link chat. Ignoring him, Harley plopped down on the bed, snatching up the TV remote as she went.

"Western…infomercial…infomercial…commercial…Simpsons…infomercial…sure are a lot of infomercials tonight…Friends rerun…static…(I wonder if they blocked off the pervy stations?)…ah, here we go!"

Batman turned to see what she had shouted about, only to see her at the foot of the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest as a surrogate teddy bear and positively glued to the glowing screen. Looking there, he almost winced as he discovered that she had discovered a showing of "Some like It Hot", now only just a few minutes in. He had seen a bit of the movie a few years back when he had been invited to an informal party thrown by an extravagantly wealthy actor. He had gone to track down the whereabouts of Penguin and the night had soon offered him a chance to lip off.

But tonight he was trapped. He couldn't leave Quinn unattended for longer than a second for fear of what she might do. Allowing her to take that shower had bred many uncertainties, but his intuition had told him to allow her the shower, especially after witnessing the state she had been in during the ride over. He recalled that this was a common event whenever the Joker left her for any prolonged period of time.

"Hey Bats, c'mere an watch this part, I love it! Y'see, these two lounge players witnessed some gangster offin' another and now they need to hide, so they join an all girly band, dressed up as 'dames.'" Harley bounced in spot, giggling as the two men struggled in their heels. Batman turned away and spoke some more words in a low voice, though he needn't have bothered as Harley had eyes and ears only for the flick.

Signing off, or whatever, the caped crusader seemingly glided to the lone chair of the hotel room and repositioned it in the darkest corner between the bed and the window so as to watch both his roomie and both possible means of entrance or escape. Harley merely snickered at his paranoia. They watched the movie for several long minutes, one giddy and one reluctant, before the night was disturbed by a low growling sound. Harley, taken aback by the intrusion, looked around quickly for the source, only to realize with shock that it had been her stomach.

Grinning sheepishly at the bemused Batman (hey, there was another title for him) she admitted, "I guess I kinda forgot to get a lunch today…or breakfast…or yesterdays…heh?" It was an odd quirk, which only she had, to chuckle and make it sound like a question. Sighing grumpily, the masked avenger extracted a sheaf of small bills from one of the many compartments on his utility belt.

"Go order some take-out," he ordered handing her the money. Looking at it distrustfully, though unwilling to pass up on food that someone else was buying, Harley scampered into the kitchenette to peruse the provided list of numbers.

"D'ya like pizza?"…"I'll take that silence as a yes." Quickly memorizing one of the numbers she ran back over to the bed, reaching across it for the phone, inputting the number into the oldy spin-wheel. Laying on her stomach, she played with her hair while she waited out the ring tone, legs raised and crossed behind her like a little kid. "Heya," she eventually announced as a tired sounding employee answered, "y'a guys still open for a bit?" The employee gave her the hours, apparently pleasing her enough to give her order and the address for it to be delivered to.

Twenty minutes of cross dressing hijinks later, a knock came at the door. Harley answered it, and paid the acne-scarred teenager quickly before he either ogled her, recognized her, or spotted the notable pointy eared shadow lurking in the corner. The pizza box went onto the bed, never mind the stains it would cause, and the included 2-liter of soda was positioned close to hand by the bed. Reaching into her bag yet again, she rummaged for a second before pulling out two cups that looked like parts of a trench kit, and a stack of paper plates, the first several spoiled by what looked like stale acid.

"Here ya go B-Man," she declared jovially, brandishing a plate of crust, cheese, tomato sauce, pepperoni and mushrooms towards the superhero. Apparently failing to find reason to refuse the food, Batman took the plate, but noticeably waited for Harley to take a bite from her own piece before beginning to eat.

"Figured since ya bought it an all, that you should at least have a slice, even if you're a big ol' meanie." Batman remained quiet.

They watched the movie in what could never be referred to as amicable silence, but it was at least not hostile. The movie ended and Harley decided to call it quits for the night, knowing that the next day was sure to be long, arduous and more than likely filled with violence. Spreading out beneath the thin sheets, she tried to ignore the fact that her mortal enemy was watching her every move and would continue to do so well after she fell asleep.

It had been a tiring day.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Bruce wasn't even slightly tired when Quinn finally dropped off, snoring a painfully loud indication. He remained in the room for another hour to make sure that she wasn't just faking before exiting out through the window and effortlessly scaling the side of the building to alight atop the roof.

"Alfred?" the billionaire started up another communication over his earpiece. It was late, but he knew that his butler would always wait by the bat-computer until he received word on Bruce when he stayed out all night.

"Here for you, Master Bruce," the calm and even British voice came back to him immediately.

"Something's turned up; several of the big name criminals have vanished, including the Joker. Quinn contacted me and asked for my help." There was no immediate questioning, as Bruce had suspected. Alfred was great at holding his inquiries until all of the information had been laid down. "She claims that we'll be able to find information from an underground network that they use to keep track of me and each other. She calls it the Bird Watch."

"That seems like a very good place for her to lay a trap for you sir. Do you actually trust for her to uphold her end of whatever deal you have going?"

"So far I've been in eyesight of her all night. I rented her a hotel room and right now she's sleeping so I don't think there's any chance of her slipping of. Even so, I'm going to have to watch her closely; no telling when she thinks to betray me,"

"Very well sir," Alfred tried to stifle a yawn but it was hopeless. "Be sure to get some sleep tonight."

"You too old friend." He signed off, but didn't move from his perch for quite some time, pondering over this latest case. Who would have the motive, or even resources, to kidnap several of the biggest criminals in Gotham, if that was what really had happened. Ras al' Ghul for one, Joker himself, the Black Glove if they were still around. All three of the kidnapped were male, so Poison Ivy was definitely an suspect, though Croc had proven resistant to numerous chemical agents in the past and wouldn't be easily controlled by her pheromone powder. Only two of them were schemers, the other one being an up front brute. There were glaring inconsistencies leaving no one option apparent.

He heard her approach before she even spoke a word, and that was because she let him. If she wanted to, Catwoman could sneak right up to him without being detected until the last possible moment.

"Didn't expect to see you here so soon," her low, sultry voice drifted through the air like a tropical breeze.

"Selina, do I even need a schedule to come see you?" he teased, a rare event indeed while still in the suit. "Can't I drop by and comment on the weather or your hair?" he turned to address her, finding her lounging easily on the ledge to his right, one leg dangling over the edge like it was nothing but the side of her bed. A lazy, care free smile was clearly visible and her bull-whip was being coiled around her finger.

"Come now Bruce, we both know that you never visit on Mondays unless there's a crime going on. Otherwise you just let me have my neighborhood to myself."

Moving leisurely, he strode over to her and found a seat by her feet, looking out over the quiet but never asleep city. It was hard to say which one allured him the most.

"Actually, there is a crime, but I wasn't going to get you involved unless I needed to," he extrapolated, good mood dimming.

"You don't know how to ask for help," she scoffed, inspecting the claws on her suit's fingers.

"Perhaps, but you always seem to know when I need it without my asking."

"Alright, I concede you that point. So what was that crime you were talking about?" She hoisted herself and sat up straight, giving him her full attention. So, for the fourth time that night, Bruce explained the case so far and about his unorthodox traveling partner. She thought about it for several minutes, clicking her claws against the worn stone in a slow metronome.

"So Harley's that desperate? I've know her awhile and these moods don't usually end well for anyone, least of all her. I don't like to say it, but shouldn't she just be admitted into Arkham? That's the only place the Joker won't actually beat her bloody in; usually because of the restraints and all."

"She has information that I need pertaining to the investigation and won't give it up unless I oblige her requests. Having those three disappear is not something I can ignore for any period of time."

"This might not be related, though it probably is, but I've heard tell that both Flash and Superman having been missing a couple of their usual rouges. And I can't be too certain but I do recall J'onn stating that the JLA's activity has been decreasing as of late, allowing for more free time for the members." He gave her a sidelong look.

"When would you have the chance to talk to J'onn?"

"He does come down from the Watchtower occasionally," she quipped. "But if all of these are actually connected, then you could have a Justice League sized problem on your hands before you know it." He stood up and took a few steps back onto the roof, feeling stiff muscles stretching and joints popping.

"For now, it's something my family can handle." He looked back at her. "Though you should probably be ready all the same."

"You know me Bruce," she winked as she pulled the whip free from her belt. Sliding off of the ledge, she fell for a dozen feet before her whip came out with a crack and wrapped around a protruding flagpole, allowing for her to swing away lightly into the night. Bruce took a deep breath, savoring the chill of the nighttime air. He expected tomorrow to be filled with tedium, frustration and a good helping of broken bones.

It had been an interesting day.


	3. Chapter 3

"No."

"Yep."

"No."

"Yep."

Batman took another look at the costume Harley was holding out to him; dark green tank top with crude smiley faces painted all over it in garish neon green, dark purple pants, almost black, with cuts and poor patch jobs making it looked like it had been stolen from a bum, and a full head clown mask that was showing it's years with neither grace nor poise, browned blood stains dotting the side and even a bullet hole at the temple to admit more air into the previous owners skull.

"No," he declared again.

"Yep," she responded as before, never losing that infuriatingly smug and amused grin. "How else are we supposed ta get you into the joint? Goin' as Batman into our little 'Anti Batman System' will probly' draw a few eyes, don't ya think?"

"I'm not dressing up as one of your thugs," he announced resolutely. There were lines, and then there were **lines**, and this definitely crossed the latter.

"Ya could go in the buff, saying you's a hippie or sommat."

"I'm not doing that either Quinn," he snarled, not at all liking what she was trying to do. They had stopped at this rarely used Joker Fun-House because she had claimed to be needing some essentials, not an entire changeof wardrobe for the both of them.

What she wore now wasn't a usual piece for her: a white tee cut off very low, exposing almost all of her stomach with the jagged edges ending just below where it would be considered indecent. A red and black jacket that bore the words "KISS THIS" boldly printed on the back. Her pants were the same color and sported a few holes on the legs, with the waistline drooping very low indeed, revealing not only the straps of her panties, but also her custom diamond logo tattooed onto her lower back, something Batman had not even been aware of, or even wanted to be aware of, until now.

Her hair had been pulled into two pigtails high on either side of her head, though it seemed she had forgone any braiding and had simply left them there. Her face was once again carefully frosted white with make-up, contrasting dully with the black lipstick she had chosen, though perhaps it was just a very dark shade of red, easily intermixable in the poor lighting of what had once been the stores stock room. To complete her ensemble, she had a small mask around her eyes, a curiosity as her identity had almost never been hidden before.

"C'mon B-man, you're not bein' a team playah' on this one!" She whined childishly, even stomping her foot to that affect. "If it makes ya feel any better you can wear your Barbie belt underneath all of it. But you can't just walk in as Batman. That's a no-no. And since you won't let me just go in alone, I ain't seein' other options here."

Bruce growled to himself, knowing that she indeed had a point; though he was loathe admitting it. Wordlessly he grabbed the costume out of her hands, stalking off further into the dark store to find some privacy. This was most definitely disturbing, but he had known from the get go that being Batman would be far from anything normal, and that sometimes sacrifices needed to be made.

Even if those sacrifices sometimes smelled like B.O. and stale potato chips.

'_Ding Ding!'_

The tiny bell tinkled as the door opened, chiming once more as it swung closed. The small bookstore had a homey feel about it that perfectly matched the withered grandma who was sliding thick books into places on the already crammed book shelves. When she spied Harley and her large escort through her small spectacles, she smiled warmly at them.

"Welcome to the 'Book Nook," she greeted. "I'm Agnes. Just let me know if there is a book you're looking for and I'll do my best to find it for you."

"Actually, we's looking for a book on fish," Harley began, "Amphiprion ocellaris to be specific."

Batman recognized the proper name for the common clownfish, realizing that she was referring to the Joker. It was a good idea, he grudgingly admitted, using that kind of coding.

Agnes pondered this request for a minute before relocating the stack of books in her arms onto a small table that was already overflowing with open tomes. Tutting to herself, the elderly woman disappeared behind a curtain that led into a back room, sounds of cabinet doors being opened soon following.

"Batman's a bird and you are fish?" Bruce inquired of Harley, who had found a book about carpentry momentarily interesting. She shook her head, finger running down the spines of a tall column of alphabetized encyclopedias, stopping slightly on 'B' and 'J'.

"Not all of us. Cobblepot is any kind of arctic bird. Moth, Clayface and Croc are all pretty easy as well. Eddie's a parrot. Ghul is ancient religious texts an' tha like. I think you get the idea." She stopped perusing the books and turned to face him, noting the curiosity in his eyes that would otherwise have been hidden behind the opaque lenses of his cowl. She couldn't be sure, thanks to the shading of his clown mask, but it appeared that his eyes were a darker blue than her own, almost as hypnotic as sapphires.

"So, how does this act as a fast warning system?" He probed.

"Well, whoeva's mannin' the Watch has all of our numbers, or at least our men's numbers, under different names. They call one of these numbers, and the message is given. Then they pack up, bust up their phone and move on. Simple and clean," she finished with a shrug, turning as Agnes returned baring a large book that had loose sheafs of paper visibly protruding from between the pages.

"Here you are," Agnes announced, delicately setting the book onto a viewing table before puttering off to finish relocating her books. Bruce watched her go, puzzled in trying to figure out why she was helping this string of villain networks. He wasn't lulled by the 'dotting granny' appearance, knowing full well just how unreliable appearances were.

Harley opened the heavy cover, revealing that the pages were actually blank of official type, instead being filled with multitudes of handwritten notes in various hands. At a glance, he could tell that they were all about the Joker and not himself, a distinction that he inquired about.

"We don't just watch you. How many times have we been at each other's throats without you even being there?" Harley quizzed as she flipped through the pages, trying hard to ignore some (all) of the comments about her and Joker, none of which were flattering, or even polite. "We need a way to watch each other and take necessary steps to prepare for any gang wars that's a' brewin'." She finally arrived at the first page that held only half of the space in writing, apparently the most recent additions.

They skimmed through the different notes, some of which contradicted with others while others were mere speculations, rumors or even comments about his hygiene or similar such offensive remarks. Peering over her shoulder, Bruce quickly spotted something of note.

"Here," he stated simply, laying a finger directly below the addition. Harley read it aloud to prevent misinterpretation.

"'Joker's been missing for months. Guy from M said something like this would happen. Should have asked about Waylon, was a buddy in the clink.'" Harley frowned in thought, running her thumbnail against her lower lip. It was a tick she had developed after watching her father years ago when he wasn't yet imprisoned. "Imma going to guess that 'M' is Metropolis, considerin' that several of them guys over there are missin' as well," she murmured. "Who's Waylon?" 

"Croc's real name. He dropped it when he became a wrestler," Batman explained, also with a low voice. "So somebody knew that this was going to happen and was in contact with somebody that either orchestrated or helped to orchestrate the abduction. Can we find whoever wrote this?" She shook her head again.

"It's anonymous. Helps ta' keep tabs on each other, otherwise we'd a' be killin' all of each other's goons." Cursing internally, Batman stood up straight and made to depart when the doorbell chimed again. Alerted to this new arrival, the Dark Knight adopted the stance of a common flunky; slouched back, one hand jammed into his pocket, the other swinging in a bored motion, looking around the store with nothing particular in mind. He didn't even look at whomever it was that had just arrived, letting Harley handle this (upon further reflection, he realized just how peculiar that fact was).

"Oh, heya Harvey!" Harley chirped, only the slightest hint of nervousness tainting her voice, easily excusable due to the fact that the former DA had brought along at least a dozen of his men, half of which were waiting outside the door, clearly visible through the cloudy glass.

"Quinn," Two-Face monosyllabically greeted, walking past the duo without a second glance. Batman discreetly tapped his thick-soled boot against Harleys, hopefully getting across the message not to overreact. They continued to read the page, or at least pretend to read it, as Harvey asked Agnes for a book on Greek Mythology. Bruce made the rather easy connection to Maxxie Zeus (unless Prometheus had somehow revived from having an arrow through his brain, though stranger things had happened), which meant that he wasn't there to hassle the Joker's girlfriend or her lackey.

Deciding that they had pretended long enough, Harley closed their book with a thump, let Batman pick it up and carry it to where Agnes now stood. Thanking the 'nice young man', she tottered towards the backroom, but halfway there a horribly mutilated hand stopped her. Harvey took a moment to read the title of the book before looking back towards Harley, his 'good' half showing clear suspicion. Allowing the unconcerned Agnes to continue with her task, he abandoned his own volume to approach the pair. Bruce reacted by puffing out his chest in a threatening way, just as the Two-Face thugs were now doing just so.

"Why are you looking up on your psychotic boy-toy Quinn?" Dent quizzed, his voice that usual harsh, guttural rasp. Clearly unnerved, Harley took a step backwards so that her back was almost touching Bruce's chest. Finding comfort in the proximity of the disguised Batman, Harley gave Dent a sugar-sweet smile.

"Jus' doin' some light readin' in my spare time. How 'bout you?"

"Oh no, don't change the subject. You can't act the dumb blonde to me. I saw too many of them in the court room not to know when they are actually incompetent or just acting, and you do a lot of the latter." Harvey closed the distance between them in a second and grabbed her arm, eliciting a yelp of surprise. The only reason Bruce didn't immediately retaliate was because of the score of goons who no doubt had their hands on concealed weapons, just itching for a fight to break loose and rub out the Joker's right hand woman.

"Now Two-Face, it's rude to be nosy. You don't see me pokin' around what you were lookin' fer." Harley quipped, shaking off the gripping hand; perhaps not fully aware of how much danger they were in. Crossing one foot over the other, the masked woman clasped her hands behind her back. Spying movement, Bruce carefully looked down, the deep eyeholes of the mask concealing the movement, and saw that she was waving her fingers frantically, gesturing for him to give her something. Utilizing a Chinese style sleight of hand, he craftily gave her the smoke bomb he had been concealing in his palm the entire time they had been in the shop.

"Ah, but I **am** in the position to ask questions, having the superiority in numbers and arms. If you want to exit this building in the same number of pieces as when you entered, then I strongly recommend that you spill whatever secret you're withholding." Dent sneered, the full affect somewhat dampened by the fact that half of his face was always sneering.

There was a rustling as the Two-Face cronies all anticipated a move from the garishly painted thug and his charge. Silence reigned for an entire minute, with neither party deigning to move.

"Alright Harvey," Harley spoke lowly, obviously unamused, "I'll tell ya." They waited expectantly, Bruce for some kind of cover story, Two-Face and his men for whatever nitty gritty truth she would reveal. "This here is Batman," she indicated the disguised Bruce, who stiffened in shock," and we're lookin' for clues 'cause Mistah' J is up and disappeared along with a few of the other guys, and we are gonna find 'em. Kinda like a team up of sorts."

Once more, silence filled the cramped space between the two groups. There was a very pregnant pause, in which Bruce tensed his muscles; ready for the sudden trigger he knew would cause the building tension to erupt.

"PFFFTTTHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Dent erupted into barking laughter, actually bowing over from the force of his guffaws. The rest of his gang hesitated before joining their unhinged leader in laughter. Bruce took a minute to give Harley a withering look, this one more miffed than angry, but she simply smiled and punched him on the arm, not at all lightly. She was more nervous than she was letting on.

"That's just the kind of joke I would expect from Joker's little bitch," Two-Face chortled. Harley tensed, but Batman's hand on her shoulder made her refrain from doing anything rash. "Well tell you what; since you made me and the boys laugh, I'll actually give you the benefit of the flip," Harvey explained, holding up his infamous scarred silver dollar. "Heads, you walk out of here just fine or," he rotated the coin so that they could clearly see the etched and blackened side, "Tails, you have to wait for the meat wagon to come and pick you up."

Batman had no idea where this sudden declaration of death came from, though he strongly suspected it to be derived from another one of the Joker's past pranks on his fellow villains. Harvey had never been one to readily let go of a grudge whatever the cause. He had to act fast to try and prevent any casualties on either side. He knew that the key was for him to spring upon the exact right moment, but he would also need for Harley to-

"Switch em'," Harley suddenly spat, startling all of them, even Agnes who had otherwise been ignoring the confrontation from a few aisles over. "Tails we live and Heads you can blow us away," She stated resolutely to the flummoxed Two-Face. The scarred District Attorney regained his composure, grinning appreciatively at the psychiatrist and nodding his ascent.

"Keep the odds, change the favor. You know how to make a day interesting little girl. Alright, let's go." With that he flicked the coin expertly with his thumb, sending it tumbling straight up in lazy rotations. All eyes were on the dollar as it seemed to move in slow motion, the difference of life and death hanging in the balance of the outcome,

With a small 'pat' sound, the coin found itself back in Harvey's palm, everyone present craning forward to view the face.

"Heads," Two-Face declared, looking back up at Harley. She let out a puff of breath before turning to face Batman.

"I swear it seemed like a good idea at the time," she said innocently. "Oh well." With that she flung the smoke bomb at the feet of the goons, instantly obscuring them in a cloud of thick, chocking black smoke. Batman sprung at Dent, flooring him with a precise hook while gunfire erupted behind him, peppering the general vicinity where he and Quinn had just been standing. As for the blonde woman, she had smoothly cartwheeled away from their location and had already drawn both revolvers, firing back into the obscuring cloud with a volley over own.

Dragging the now unconscious villain to relative safety behind a counter, Batman relocated his utility belt from beneath his shirt and back over his waist. Reflexively gliding his fingers against one particular panel, he came away with several smaller batarangs, his shruiken equivalent. Moving at a measured clip, he entered the smoke cloud and began to lay the beat down on several of the thugs, incapacitating the first with a pin-point nerve strike that forced him to drop like a bag of lead and sending the batarangs into the gun hands of two more, causing their sub-machineguns to clatter against the wooden floor.

A fourth charged him with a lead pipe, swinging it like a caveman club towards the apparent Joker goon's masked face. Grabbing the weapon and yanking it to the side, Bruce drove his knee up and slammed it into the stomach of the low life, forcing all of the wind out of his lungs with a ragged 'whoosh'. He finalized the neutralization with a descending elbow to the base of the skull, eradicating consciousness.

From the direction of the entrance, there was the report of splintering glass and wood as the other thugs made their entrance with an abundance of enthusiasm. Crouching low, Bruce stalked out of the smokescreen and through the aisles of books, attempting to get a fix on where the rest of the goons were. From the other side of the bookcase he was stealthing past, there came the sudden grunt of a larger man in pain. Looking through the spaces where books should have been, he could see that Harley was engaging two of the thugs at once, utilizing her unique style of fighting to weave in between them, rendering their firearms useless or risk shooting each other. Her revolvers were spinning in her hands, acting as clubs as she pommel smacked the two men repeatedly.

Dodging below a clumsy kick, she came up and, with a flick of both wrists, sent the two guns rocketing into one of the muscular men's face, the crunch of cartilage very much audible even over the din of the other lackeys savagely searching for the two Joker clan members. Howling in pain, that particular stooge bent forward, clutching at his face. Harley leapt forward and, in a rather stunning display of gymnastics and combat prowess, slid onto, over, under and around his chest, threading her legs behind his neck and gave a mighty heave, toppling the man into the opposite bookshelf while she managed to flip onto her feet in time to land gracefully and engage the other of the pair.

Just then, bullets began to riddle the aisle Bruce was in, alerting him to the arrival of no less than four thugs who were now trying to gun him down like a fish in an oddly literate barrel. A flick from his wrist sent two flashbang batarangs into their midst, detonating with twin pops and bursts of blinding light. Sprinting towards them, he delivered a ferocious drop kick to the sternum of the one carrying the assault rifle, have deemed him the largest threat. Next he reached over and dislocated the wrist of the man carrying two large handguns, instantly following with a head butt that sent the man reeling. Still holding onto the wrist, he pirouetted around and kicked another thug in the side of the face, the man's diminutive height making it rather easy. Not even watching as his last victim was send bodily into the wall, the currently un-caped Crusader brought his free fist around and struck the one with the recent wrist pains with a backhand punch, crumpling him like paper dolls.

The last man had already regained his sight by the time Bruce got to him, brandishing a knife like some kind of 50's greaser. Weaving left and right to avoid the clumsy and painfully telegraphed stabs, he brought the flat of his palm up in a swat that succeeded in disarming the criminal with minimal effort. He dispatched the man with a combination of lightning fast jabs to the shoulders, which numbed his arms, and then to his cranium, inducing a concussion and rendering him unconscious.

Finished with that scuffle, Batman turned the corner to check on Harley, somewhat surprised to see that she was already finished and had left the two knocked out victims where they had fallen. Hearing the crack of single action gunfire, he tracked it to the backroom, which was exceedingly larger than what the rest of the store suggested. There were towers of books alongside large crates and carts laden with numerous books, which apparently couldn't fit in the front.

Harley was there, flitting between carts as she exchanged fire with the three remaining Two-Face grunts. As soon as he entered the room, gunfire peppered the area around him, prompting a hasty dive for cover. Where she was likewise pinned, Harley threw down her guns in disgust, clean out of ammo. They looked at each other across the gap, hoping that the other had some brilliant idea to get them out of this situation. When Batman didn't say anything, Harley swore vehemently and began to look around the room. For his part, the Dark Knight searched his utility belt for anything of use, but he had exhausted his limited supply over the last two days and hadn't restocked at the Batmobile.

A clatter drew his attention and what he saw caused him to shout in anger, though he wasn't sure what was the intended target of his wrath: Harley had made a beeline for one of the walls, being chased by fortunately badly aimed gunshots, and had then scaled some pipes and vents that were protruding or attached to the bricks. Gaining the element of height, she then swung from girder to girder with grace rarely found outside of a trapeze act. Moving as fast as she could, she had made it above the goons and had thrown her entire satchel at them before leaping clear.

Something inside of the bag wasn't entirely stable, and promptly exploded in a large burst of green flames that blasted the thugs into unconsciousness. However, before they could be burnt to death, Batman sprang forward and dosed the fire with a thick curtain that had been covering some rare books.

"Phew! That was harder than usual," Harley noted with some humor, wiping sweat and grime off of her forehead, a fair bit of make-up coming with it. The two walked towards each other and surveyed the wreckage that had once been a storeroom. "We make a pretty good team. Well, y'know, when we're not trying ta' kill each other that is." She shrugged unconcernedly. "So, off to Metropolis?"

"No. I'm going alone." His reply was brusque and sharp, leaving no room for argument. But argue she did.

"Why can't I come? I have a stake in this too!" She shot back, drawing up to her full height and standing toe-to-toe with the Dark Detective.

"When I find the whereabouts of the Joker I will have him sent back to Arkham where he belongs."

"Well that's not gonna happen if I find Mistah J first," she declared. "I thought you wanted to help me!"

"I wanted to find the Joker and the rest before he could cause anymore innocents to lose their lives."

"Well," she shoved him aside to walk past him, "we'll just see who-"

Her words died as a gunshot rang out and the blonde collapsed, blood gushing from a hole in her chest. In the doorway for the storeroom, Two-Face stood with a large caliber handgun poited their way, the barrel smoking faintly.

"One down," he announced, turning to aim the gun next at Batman, "one to go."

Thinking quickly, Bruce saw one of Harley's revolvers lying on the cement floor a few feet away and took one large step before soccer kicking the gun Harvey's way, forcing him to duck on instinct. By the time he stood back up, Batman had already crossed the distance between them and rammed two fingers into Two-Faced solar plexus, stunning him and leaving him open for an upper cut that knocked him back to crack the crown of his skull on the door frame. Dent's eyes rolled up and he was out like a light.

Bruce fell to his knees by Harley, who was already sheet white beneath her make-up, futilely clutching at the large hole in her chest. Looking up at her unlikely chaperone, she tried to speak, but nothing except a spurt of blood came out, reddening her chin and cheeks. She gave one last terrified look before passing out from blood loss. Cursing, Bruce racked his brain; if he took her to a hospital, they would turn her over to Gordon, and from there, Arkham. Injured like this, she couldn't defend herself from any of the other psychos if they managed to get to her.

Finally, a decision became apparent, and even though he detested it and it made his stomach turn, he knew that it was her best chance at survival.

Not minding the blood, Batman lifted Harley and carried her out of the store to where the Batmobile was waiting after an electronic summons. The only witness to this was Agnes, sweeping the bullet casings strewn across her floor.

"Such a nice young man," she tutted.

**AN:**_ Batman's thug outfit is one from 'Arkham City' and Harley is wearing a modified version of her Insurgency outfit from 'Injustice: Gods Among Us'._


	4. R n' R Chapter 1

** AN:_ You thought I was updating the regular story? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA no. We're goin' off road now bitches!_**

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Edward Nigma (AKA Nashton, "though let's keep that between us now, hmm?") was the smartest person to hold the title of 'Batman Villain'. Yes, and he knew it quite well; took pains to remind everyone about it at every chance he got. He was a natural thinker, a brilliant engineer, top tier computer specialist and quite frankly one of the most persistent assholes you would ever meet in the Gotham underworld. He was one of the Greats, forever immortalized as having been one of the first villains on the scene who had not only stuck around, but had kept going strong despite a lack of meta-human powers that was admittedly prevalent amongst his fellow rouges. He had outsmarted Batman on more than one occasion, been a serious threat to other Supers in the world when his interests ventured beyond the borders of his villainous alma mater, and had even once been responsible for structuring and orchestrating a massive death game in a distant dimension governed by pitiless cops known as 'Judges', though nobody actually remembered that one. Yes indeed, The Riddler was without a doubt a very accomplished name in any circle.

He was currently fleeing from mall security.

Now, he would absolutely insist that the whole story be told, lest it be thought that he had been discovered like a plebeian trying to lift several devices from an electronic store that he needed to reconfigure his security devices, but that was actually the long and short of it. He would have paid for it, but he honestly didn't have an honest cent to his name save a five dollar bill he had found in the laundry the other day. He would have hijacked a transport delivering a vast stock of the little beauties, but he only needed a couple, not a shipments worth. He would even have tried contacts with the Market to see if he could attain some that way, but that would mean he had stooped so far as to ask for help on a simple matter, and Cobblepot had never been one to forget something like that in case blackmail was needed later down the line, that little overstuffed, pompous, screeching, third rate scalper.

So Eddy had nipped on down to '_GothamPointe Shopping Center_' and had found the best candidate for his requirements and had promptly been spotted by the twenty year old working the counter pocketing the goods.

Whatever else may be said, Edward Nigma was not a man prone to overstating the obvious. Maybe the obscure, or even the eclectic if he was feeling up to a little riddling. That being said, he would later admit that wearing his custom evening jacket done up in moss green and embroidered with the stylized, lime green question marks he was known for as well as his matching bowler hat may not have been the best choice for a weekday outing.

But that was looking back, and The Riddler liked to look ahead, to what could still be. So he knew that, despite his veritable dry spell, this minor crime could still land him in Blackgate, or even Arkham, when they brought him in for shoplifting and rung him up with the several priors that still lingered since his last appearance in the crime scene, and this was not a desirable outcome, ergo- fleeing mall security.

He lucked out in that they were the plump, weekend variety rather than the severe faced pseudo military that could otherwise have been stationed that day, but this was only a small reprieve as he was now lost and couldn't remember which hallway would lead him to the JC Penny he had entered through and would be the closest to the rundown car he had managed to posses for just over ten years despite police seizures and sanitarium stints (it was really one of the few things Batman didn't know about, seeing as Eddy had bought it from a college student for 300 bucks cash one sticky summer day).

Yes, lost, shut up.

Bundling his hat up in his reversed jacket and wiping some of the sweat from his brow as he mounted the upward escalator, he hoped to slip away amongst the crowd, an unseen face midst the masses. These delusions of stealth were abruptly shattered when he arrived at the top and saw three of the by-the-hour law enforcement personal scanning the faces of everyone that passed them, lit up tablets in hand, no doubt with his face captured from a security camera frozen front and center.

Thinking fast, Nigma popped his hat inside out slipped it under his magenta vest and off-white button up, giving himself a rather symmetrical paunch, and retrieved his glasses from his pants pocket (Never carry fragile valuables where vigilantes are like to slam a chair into you). He was near sighted, so he usually went without while in public, but he had found that any addition could make a face just slightly less recognizable, if even for a moment. The jacket he kept tucked in the crook of his left arm, the one farthest from the mall cops, and a hand swept his light brown hair from the squashed state it had been in under the hat.

Opting not to risk passing them directly, Riddler instead chose to merge with the human traffic that was _congesting_ in the opposite direction, carrying him past some of the more medium quality boutiques, salons and alternative music outlets. This path would not take him to a known exit, but he would take a measure of relief in knowing that he could at least buy himself time to plan...to scheme.

_Rarely second, ever first,_

_it is others attention that I thirst._

_When you see me, you are blind,_

_A better accomplice you'll n'er find. **(1)**_

Yes, that would do nicely. Now he just had to figure how the hell he'd actually go about setting one up.

The living blood cells of capitalistic commerce had drawn him to the two level food court, full of sticky tables and stickier clerks. Several of the venues held their own miniature dining rooms, where the gorging customers could feel less exposed, playing on their primal lizard brains.

He liked it.

Seeing two more of the security guards walking his way, far more austere than than their diabetic counterparts, Edward veered into the closest establishment at hand, a Greek fashioned joint and zeroed in on the only person there sitting by himself at a two person booth. When you look for one, you ignore two.

Sliding into the plastic seat across from the eating man, Eddy did his best to look and act nonchalant, like he was there on a casual sojourn with his good buddy...this guy. A cursory look while his peripherals scouted: unruly black hair, narrow jaw, dark eyes, brown leather jacket, moderately broad shoulders, nearly finished gyro. He seemed average enough, though perhaps a bit too handsome to be a business associate, and not casual enough to be frat buddy material. He would do for now, while the guards fruitlessly searched around for a man who had sunk into the background.

For his part in all this, Jason Todd felt like he might be in the middle of one of those prank shows, where the currently trendy host would walk out from the kitchen and tell he had just been 'bonked', or some such shit.

Why else would the Riddler just sit down across from him from out of nowhere?

Mutely chewing (the lamb was overcooked and the hummus too salty), he refrained from drawing the semi-automatic, one of them at least, and blowing Nigma's head into the Korean place next door, or nicking his femoral in three places and pinning both hands to the table with silverware to bleed out. It's not that public displays of extreme and often lethal violence dissuaded him – ooh no, far from it – it's just that this seemed like the sort of thing that only really happened to Bruce, or even the Dick Wonder in his squat-hole of a city, and that meant there was a reason behind this phenomena.

Either way, somebody was getting shot in the head today, and Red Hood wasn't exactly going to just ignore the A-List name that had just sat itself in his crosshairs.

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Seven years prior to that day, the small time street gang known as the 'Freeloaders', then numbering just over twenty and almost exclusively tied to Burchion Avenue, had tried to upstage a more firmly rooted criminal sub-family by the garnered name of 'Debtmen'. The conflict had lasted two days and one night, mostly consisting of four brawls in alleys and one gun fight, though that had been shut down and then handled by the GCPD before both sides of the minor scuffle were brought down by a combination of traffic laws and Batman, mostly the latter.

It hadn't even warranted page four coverage in the local papers, seeing as the only fatalities had been a flock of geese that hadn't gotten out of the way fast enough (thus the traffic violation) and the whole ordeal resembled a parody of a gangland war than an actual one.

But the conflict hadn't ended there; it had only escalated. A year and a half later, the Debtmen retaliated after most of their numbers were released on parole, aiming to crush the upstarts into dust. This time, a fair amount of blood had been shed, nearly all of it the Freeloaders'. Rather than eradicating the alley rats, this proved to be a motivation for the friends of the original 'Loaders, swelling the motley pack greatly enough to rival the Debtmen almost overnight. Their counterattack was unorganized and created havoc across an entire city block. This triggered a back and forth series of events that kept throwing the two small time groups against each other in increasingly brutal and deadly skirmishes that depleted their ranks and then bolstered them higher and higher.

It wasn't long before what had been a back alley grudge turned into a vendetta that threatened to destabilize an entire neighborhood. Even with the intervention of the local masks, it seemed to only egg the thugs on more, prompting hit and runs, drive by's, impromptu explosives, Molotov cocktails through front windows and storms of bullets that left streets blocked off for weeks.

As a result of this unlikely rebirth, the Freeloaders soon came upon genuine clout within the underworld, something long lacking in their system. With suggestions from far more established criminals, they began to work a money trade through various fronts and dummy accounts, fueling their ongoing war with the Debtmen. Now with a reputation, social pull and cash flow, the 'Loaders began to slowly dominate the scene, trouncing their rivals in the inevitable fights, or at least being able to quickly make up for their losses, and bailing out any members caught by a Bat agent rather than having to wait out their sentences.

On the opposite end, the Debtmen began to decline, with their focus so riveted on revenge and the other dark elements slowly and subtly backing the rising 'Loaders, and it only took a few years for what had been meticulously built upon the foundations of old connections and respect to unravel and leave them exposed. They were now the street toughs fighting against the much larger gang.

As of today, the Debtmen were practically extinct, reduced to a few dozen angry men and boys on the street, looking to prove themselves through overcompensated violence. It just so happened that one of these transgressions was targeted at several of the 'Loaders' puppet businesses at one time, aiming to put a dent in the upstarts income. It just so happened that those several fronts were all in the same place.

In a mall: _GothamPointe_. And the service entrance that they used to smuggle their weapons in while arriving close to the targets brought them out right next to the food court.

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Edward Nigma was rather opposed to guns on a professional and ethical level. No, he didn't feel bad about the effects of bullets, but rather that they were a sign of dependence and a weak will. So he rarely, if ever, carried one on his person or even nearby. He much preferred elaborate traps and gizmos that were a real mark of genius, but they were hardly practical in sudden situations that called for one to protect themselves from bodily harm by those who would rather see a certain member of society deprived of animating life than for them to continue on as they were unmolested, if not unharmed.

Jason Todd had already pulled out both .9mm's at the first burst of gunfire that split the rambling ambiance of the mall.

Eddie, still high strung, flung himself out of his chair and under the table and curled in on himself, making himself as small a target as he could. This wasn't necessary, seeing as the several bursts had been directed at the large skylights above the court, and only to elicit panic, perhaps the most dangerous weapon in a crowd.

Sure enough, the meandering and feeding civilians began to scream and run, direction didn't matter, away from the noise and perceived danger. Lizard brains indeed.

Todd crouched down beside the safety railing, observing through the rungs at the ragtag clutch of gun toting thugs below, taking numbers, equipment measures and formulating half a dozen hypothesized theories of motive and movements. Exits were noted and every single possible handhold or cover was once again reanalyzed for strategic viability in an evolving battlefield. He could handle this, but not really as efficiently as he could if he had been fully outfitted and in possession of his trademark helmet (the last one had been smashed to splinters in a scuffle after a surprise visit from Solomon Grundy on Dangesse street by the mortuary, and he was awaiting its replacement from Barbara, who had insisted on replacing his 'garage terrorist' tech with something that could actually be a benefit to his shooting people thing. Her words). A spare domino mask retrieved from one of his many pockets would serve to cover his identity, but only as a cosmetic precaution for one who is listed as legally dead.

Without Brucie around, he wasn't obligated to restrain himself to shooting legs and arms, though he did intend to leave one or two alive, if only to get information from and so he wouldn't have bat breath at his shoulder for the next month.

Springing up and over the railing, he fired several times on the way down to the ground, mostly to get the gunmen's attention. Landing in a sideways roll, he came back to his feet running, firing both handguns as return fire followed a second too slow. Several of the attackers fell back with a cry and a small show of blood, but he could only see one fatal wound among them so they were down but not out yet. Diving onto a row of joined tables, he slid on his shoulder, still firing, until coming out onto the other side, this time landing prone.

Quickly ejecting the spent magazines, he pulled fresh ones from beneath his jacket and smoothly inserted them into the mag wells. These few seconds were spent listening to the gunfire of machine pistols and a few shotguns firing in his general vicinity, wasting bullets and creating a larger window of opportunity for him to exploit. When enough of the thugs had to stop to reload, he straightened up and carefully lined up his shots; no point shooting if you weren't going to hit what you were aiming at.

He dropped four more before he had to crouch down again. They and he were separated by about seven row of tables and a solid partition of waste bins, negating any chance of picking them off with leg shots and then one to the triangle (when aiming to put someone down, you don't aim for the head like they do in every single action movie out there; instead, you want to hit them in the area of a triangle naturally formed between both nipples and their neck. Giggle at the word nipple and Killer Croc'll bite yours off, you have been warned). The limitation worked both ways, but that meant more to them than it did to him.

Holstering one of the firearms, Red Hood extracted a handful of gunmetal gray balls, only slightly larger than the average marble. Throwing them in a wide arc, each ball detonated with a flash of phosphorescence that, by itself was barely an eyesore, but altogether was a very effective flashbang.

Once again rising into a run, he kept the pressure up even as the smarter ones finally began seeking cover, crouching behind tables, trash cans and even each other in their desperate evasion of the bullets filling the air. More and more were falling to his storm of lead, and what had been a veritable mob was being whittled down to more manageable levels of populace. Honestly, this was barely even a work out for the former Robin as it was; he was so far above the average goons level that there might as well haven't even been a comparison. Not in numbers and not armed.

Well, that was what his Lazarus addled ego whispered at the back of his conscious mind. It was then a rather potent shock to the system when the '_ting ting_' of metal bouncing off of the tiled floor, barely even audible over the roar of gunfire echoing off of the metal and glass ceiling, heralding the introduction of military grade fragmentation grenades into the exchange, thrown both over and under the interspersed tables and chairs.

Jason knew that there wasn't any time to theatrically throw the explosives back at the casters and that he needed to get something substantial between him and the imminent blasts as soon as goddamn possible. But any options were restricted to plastic tables and chairs, with the grenades already between him and the line of trash cans.

Given no other choice, he jumped back onto a table, dropping both handguns to grip the sides of the table and overturn it with his fall, giving him at least a marginal amount of protection. Not a quarter of a second later, four grenades exploded with thunderous reports, the fifth detonation hidden under the sound wave of the first volley. Disproportionately small fireballs and shrapnel flew in every direction, sending nearby tables flipping from the force. Jason was buffeted a half foot, the table the only insulation between his spine and dangerous amounts of kinetic energy. It didn't fare so well against the shrapnel, however, and he had to endure the white hot points of pain as a number of the metal fragments managed to bypass the table, his thick jacket and the non-constrictive amount of armor protecting his chest. Only surface injuries, but they still hurt mightily.

The air went quiet for half a beat afterwards, the explosions having created a small pocket of vacuum in the food court where all the air had been forced away, but that was gone in an instant and the world returned to normal. His helmet had audio receptors that would have protected his eardrums from any noise up to a close range sonic boom, but the ear plugs he had serviced for now in saving him from permanent hearing loss.

But now he had another problem: his handguns had been caught up in the blast and were now nowhere to be seen. That brought his total amount of guns down to two, and he didn't carry as much ammo for the mismatched machine pistols as he had the semi-automatics. The time for enjoying the firefight was officially over, and he needed to put these guys down here and now before he found himself in the unenviable position of having to improvise weaponry.

Rolling into a crouch, he grunted once as his back stretched and the wounds inflicted there gave less than courteous shouts of protest. He could ignore them easily, but they would become a problem sooner rather than later if he didn't -heh- watch his back.

There would be a few seconds, just a few, where the goons would be confused and alarmed; there wasn't a mammal on the planet that wouldn't at least flinch when several explosions went off a few yards away. That was the window of opportunity he would have to shut this engagement down for good.

The sprinkler system finally activated, providing another layer to the chaos he was shrouding himself in. And, just as he was about to stand up, there came several _te-te-te-tic_ sounds, like several marbles had been thrown across the floor. And then, just to prove that this was Gotham, a voice over a the PA system made everyone stop in their tracks.

"Riddle me this: You can rout me, you can ground me, you can bend me, you can spend me, but one thing you will never ever do is totally suspend me."

It wasn't one of Nigma's better improvs, but he was rather hurried as it was, so sacrifices had to be made. As soon as he had thrown the Jerry-rigged 'pop boxes' and declared the painfully obvious riddle, he was scampering away after the retreating crowd, deciding the panic would be a perfectly good smokescreen to evade the security. Being a known criminal during a crisis was hadly advantageous when the crisis was not of your own make.

'Pop box' was the name given to these little contraptions that Nigma had found rather amusing and economical. Basically, they were a C battery with both leads connected to an equally small device with the casing pried off and leaving the delicate electronics inside vulnerable. Introduce something conductive, and they would basically explode with enough of a charge to cause a full grown man to involuntarily twitch. They worked rather well as distractions against most normal people, not so great against the masks that proofed their outfits against shocks of most moderate voltages, and were easy to rig in seconds.

Even though he had to mutilate the very devices he had come to mall for and garnered such annoying trouble for (he didn't actually know the name of them; he had just followed the instructions from a nifty website on home defense and the picture provided for the missing component had been clear enough for him to use that by itself), he decided that they it was much more advantageous in the long run if he used them this way to avoid immediate trouble rather than finish his security measures for possible threats later on.

Back with Jason, it wasn't the most taxing of matters to figure out that he didn't want to be on the water slicked linoleum when the pop boxes went off. It wasn't because of the shock, which would be insignificant, but rather because he was holding two automatic machine pistols, and you don't want to be twitchy when holding those.

Breaking from cover, what little was left, he sprinted towards the curved stairway that connected the two levels of the food court, ignoring the scattering of fire that accompanied him and pocketing the pistols. Taking a single large step up the wall, he threw himself upwards to grab the railing halfway up, where he hung as the pop boxes did their magic.

Seven points of nauseatingly bright light blossomed around the court as the potent punches of electricity arced across the thin layer of water that had gathered along the tiles. Anyone standing close by received a surprise jolt to the system, and just as Red Hood had predicted, everyone holding a gun couldn't avoid squeezing the triggers. This resulted in one immediate fatality and two injuries. Unfortunately, one of those injuries happened to be Red Hood himself, as a small caliber bullet sank into his right thigh.

Grimacing, he pulled himself bodily up and over the railing, one of the pistols falling from his pocket as he did so. Still, after that it wasn't very hard to pick off the remainder of the gang from his vantage point, but he didn't even try to kill them all; he was just so done with the day and decided just to get the police statements when he could rather than go through an interrogation right now.

Limping away on the upper floor, caught a distant glimpse of a pea green jacket as it pushed itself through the crowd of panicked shoppers. Hmm...

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Nigma decided that he would just have to suck it up and ask Penguin to acquire some of the required devices and to put the bill on the tab he didn't intend to pay off this decade. Annoyed, defeated, and wet, he slunk out the doors of a bookshop and into open air. Nobody was paying him any attention really, so he didn't have much trouble walking around the perimeter of the mall until he finally found the JC Penny and tracked down where his little lemon was parked at the far end of one row.

Jiggling the key in the lock of the drivers side door until it caught, he pulled open the door that squeaked and sat down heavily on the squashed seat, devoid of any comfort. Sitting there for a moment to sulk, he didn't immediately realize that someone else was walking around the other side of the car. Unfortunately, the passenger door had never been able to lock for as long as he'd had the vehicle, so it didn't even slow Todd down as he likewise took a seat, his being decidedly puffier than Edward's.

The two part-time criminals stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Oh shit," Nigma hissed as he swung his head away to glare out his window. "Just my luck to have sat next to the only Robin to turn rogue."

"Oh yeah?" Jason challenged, feeling combative as the adrenaline ebbed from his system and made the pain in his leg more pronounced. "Well imagine being that former Robin when a man he remembers wearing a bright green leotard with question marks on it sits down across from him when he's just trying to enjoy lunch!"

"Why do people only remember the leotard?!"

"And just what the hell were you doing there in the first place? Seems pretty suspicious that you show up just seconds before a gaggle of thugs start shooting up the place." The last part was spoken with a faint accent, like he was trying to channel his inner Bogart. Why? Who knew.

"Well, that just happens to be my luck as of late: one crapstorm after another until I'm either going to end up dead of back in Arkham. But we wouldn't be talking if you believed I had anything to do with that – your track record is too full of bullet holes to suggest that kind of leniency." He looked at Red Hood critically. "You want something." It wasn't a question, which was uncharacteristic of his villainous alter ego, but far from extraordinary when he was just out and about.

Jason grinned, the sight made even more unnerving by the blood that was tracing his teeth. "Well, I wouldn't say no to a band-aid or two."

Nigma looked down at Jason's leg and saw the blood trickling out of the bullet wound. "Ah dammit! You're getting it all over the seat!" Squacking indignantly, he bent about and rummaged through the backseat, which Jason now realized was packed with an assortment a miscellaneous items that probably wouldn't be found in the backseat of a car, such as a toaster, laundry basket full of dismantled electronics, the tattered remains of a Canadian flag, a plastic bucket that was overflowing with pens, an artists easel folded up against the door, and basically such a general mess that it became harder and harder to identify individual objects from the whole.

But it seemed that Nigma had a good idea where stuff was, as he pulled out a towel spotted with dark grease and oil in seconds and forced it into Jason's hands, to be tucked under and around the wounded leg and hopefully prevent any further stains.

"Are you presently wanted?" the man who sometimes went by Riddler inquired, clearly annoyed.

"What kind of question is that? Are you taking a census or something?"

Riddler made a rude noise. "I'm asking if it'll be a problem if I dump you at the hospital. I don't want to be arrested for aiding and abetting a known murderer."

"Like you haven't been arrested for worse."

"Not lately I haven't!"

"Well, I just killed at least five men in a public place in an act of unlawful vigilantism. That usually earns more than a slap on the wrist with a ruler."

"Nuns."

"What?"

"Nothing. So, what about the Bat? Can I leave you some place he can find you to patch you up?"

"Same deal as the police. I'll need to let him cool down if I want a favor out of him, like not letting me bleed out on a rooftop."

"A vet?"

"You are not taking me to a fucking animal clinic to have a bullet removed. Just take me to your place to let me patch myself up and I won't tell Batman where it is as compensation."

"Screw that noise. I'd rather Batman knew where I slept if you found out in case you decided to come back and make my head into pasta."

Jason pulled out his remaining machine pistol and plonked it on the dashboard (the effect was somewhat ruined when the space proved too small and it nearly slid off, forcing him to clamp his had down on it). "We could always go that route right now if you prefer. I cap you and take your car, no difference to me."

"Mmmmmmmm!" Riddler growled vehemently as he started the engine. He was starting to regret all those times he had left the second Robin in some deathtrap to distract the Caped Crusader as he attempted a getaway. Something told him he was about to reap what he had sown, and his grandfather had once told him that the Nashton family were no longer farmers for a reason. Screw his life.

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**AN:** _A word, if I may. I would like to reiterate that I am not following any one continuity for this story, opting instead to take elements from all over and mixing them together to create what I envisioned for this world. Notable examples:_

_-Jason Todd is obviously back as the Red Hood, is on fragile but neutral grounds with the bat-family, and has black hair, not red. Why that last one is important is something I'll never figure out._

_-Damien Wayne does not, in any capacity, exist. I never liked him and he quite frankly provided absolutely nothing for the Batman mythos besides a cow, an evil clone straight from Mad Max, and the unfortunate reminder that Batman does in fact have sex. None of that, thank you._

_-Riddler more closely physically resembles a cross of his iterations from 'Arkham Origins' and 'Hush', because a balding, advanced middle aged villain in a leotard is something I just will not write. Also, I like the snark._

_-I am freely taking from the comic rule 'don't explain if you don't actually know'. I am not an electrician, carpenter, stone mason, gunsmith, lawyer, doctor, super villain or police officer, so I am ad-libbing any technical explanations. I will gladly crack open my dictionary to find the definition of a word I want to use, but I am __**not**__ going to research something when I can just as easily say 'elctric thing go BOOM', so there._

_ Thanks be to everyone who is still reading, and don't hold your breath waiting for the next update. Seriously._


	5. R n' R Chapter 2

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_Casa de Nigma _wasn't as much of a lair as Jason had expected it to be. In fact, it was quite cleverly disguised as a second story apartment in the downtown district on RCS Drive with a mediocre view of the street and thin walls that allowed for the Norwegian neighbors' constant bickering to be only slightly muffled. It was...something of a letdown in comparison to the various refurbished warehouses and obligingly puzzle-themed stores he had raided in his Robin years.

"I'd say sit anywhere, but that would mean that you're welcome," Edward breezily declared as he locked the thick door behind them (double deadbolts and chains with a solid metal frame around the hinges – doubtlessly costly, but he had obviously learned from years of having his doors kicked in) and hung his wrinkled coat on the doorknob of a closet immediately to the right of the entrance, wearing a white long sleeved shirt and a jade green buttoned vest underneath. "...that and you might sit on something explosive."

Mostly ignoring the other man, Jason limped over to what seemed to be the kitchenette and swiped a pile of paper files from a cheap metal stool and lowered himself lightly upon it, keeping his injured leg straight. He had examined it on the drive over and had determined three very important things: number one being that the bullet had been a small caliber, so the wound was not large or even life threatening; number two being that the bullet had passed nearly all the way through the meat of his thigh and was much closer to the uninjured side than the entrance wound; and number three was that the femur had not been broken as a result of the wound, which was always appreciated. Still, it wouldn't hurt to get an x-ray sometime soon, so as to avoid aggravating any fractures. It sucked to get off easy from one injury only to have it bite you in the ass later on simply because of negligence.

Edward too had appraised his wounds and had likely come to some of the same conclusions as he had, though more from annoyance than any real desire to help. Still, the former Lord of Logic procured a drugstore brand bottle of alcohol, a set of extra long tweezers, a sewing needle and a spool of regular black thread. Not exactly Alfred's well-stocked medical cabinet, but it would do.

Into a glass jar was poured about two inches of the alcohol for the tweezers and needle to disinfect in. Jason peeled the now sodden and sticky towel away from his leg, a fresh helping of blood already oozing from the relatively small wound, and carefully cut away at his pant leg with a foldable karambit, widening the hole around the injury to allow for easier access without straight up taking them off.

"Shouldn't you be well versed in treating your pwn injuries by this point?" Nigma grumbled as he wiped at the bullet hole with another towel, this one doused with alcohol. Jason didn't hiss or complain about the new pain, as was the custom of any other person, seeing as being shot was slightly more of a concern than a mild burn. That, and he had long held the assumption that his death and subsequent revival had slightly numbed his pain receptors. Useful in his line of work.

"Well, yeah, but it's always neater when someone else does the delicate work. Unless they're so inept that they just make it worse."

Edward let the jibe pass him by, focusing instead on painstakingly inserting the tweezers into the wound, pinched close to prevent it from catching on something. Jason said nothing, but his grip on the kitchen bar's edge became white knuckled.

It really didn't take very long. The bullet hadn't fragmented and was out in just under five minutes, and the wound was neatly sewn shut with the deftness of a practiced EMT. Thick gauze was wrapped tightly around the injury in place of cauterization, the leg of Jason's pants having been cut off, so he now had a lopsided pair of shorts. Edward even had a pair of aluminum crutches stored in one of his rooms, the purpose for them being there was not supplied or asked for.

Nigma was washing his equipment and hands in the kitchen sink while Jason sat on the lumpy couch in the living room, staring at the space in front of him that should have contained a TV, but instead was the home to two bookshelves packed tight with an assortment of unorganized books. Most of them were related to riddles, puns, puzzles and brain teasers; but a good number seemed to be completely unrelated, ranging from etymology, marine geology, car maintenance, topographical maps, accounts of every major war in northern Asia, one or two on embroidery, a users manual for a computer that wasn't anywhere he could see, dog/cat training, a written documentary on the filming of _Star Wars_, several biographies on various individuals throughout history, and even an "expose" on various super criminals

The only common thread was that none of them were fiction.

"As much as it goes against my better judgment, you're going to have to stay here for a few hours; I didn't patch you up just so you could go and rip your stitches walking out the door." Edward strolled into the room, shirtsleeves rolled up.

Jason waved his hand vaguely, indicating that he understood but didn't much care to comment. He was without pain medication, so he wasn't in much of a hurry anyway. He just needed time to plan out his way back to his safehouse. There was no way he was asking Nigma for another ride, and he couldn't really drive in this state, so he also couldn't just steal his car. Maybe several taxi rides could eat up the distance, but that would still mean that he'd have to walk the rest of the way. By now word would have gotten to bat-ears about the failed hold-up at the mall, so it wouldn't be advantageous to contact Bruce so soon after shooting up the place. Maybe Drake could give him a lift, so long as he had another ride besides that crotch rocket. If he contacted Oracle, she could probably send someone trustworthy to chauffeur him, but that would be another one he owed her.

Edward was scrutinizing his face with narrowed eyes, his glasses stowed away again. Jason scowled back.

"I know that face to mean you're planning. Would this plan happen to involve me getting double tapped in the back of the skull and hidden in a dumpster five blocks over?"

Jason raised an eyebrow and regarded the retired criminal with bemusement. "How'd you come to either of those conclusions?"

"You haven't changed your facial ticks that much since you were a kid, and I'm willing to assume the worst from you in order to prevent it."

Jason laughed -once- at that. "Paranoid sucker aren't ya?"

"You don't get to live long in this city when your contemporaries all have homicidal inclinations without a fair deal of caution. I may not really be in that crowd anymore, but some of them are prone to holding grudges for years, and I really would like not to be horrifically killed. I know that you heroes have a tendency to ignore death, but unless the body isn't found, villains and rouges don't usually come back."

"'If the body isn't found'?"

"That is the distinction yes. I've heard of capes getting atomized and still finding their way back, perfectly fine and ready to jump back into work. Beyond bizarre."

Jason, as the poster child of that principle, had to agree with his sentiment, though he said nothing. "Well, just to appease your 'caution', what I'm thinking about has nothing to do with you."

Nigma seemed dubious, but sat down in an armchair he had probably found at a flea market. They regarded each other with something between suspicion and annoyance.

Then a thought came to Jason, and it was one he probably should have taken note of earlier, but had been a mite distracted. "How did you recognize me?"

Edward leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "I rarely forget a face, and you haven't really changed all that much since adolescence."

"Even without the mask?"

"Like it ever hid anything."

"But you didn't remember me right away?"

"I had other things to think about at the time."

"And you knew that I was Red Hood?"

"There were rumors and whispers, of course, but all I needed to confirm it was by hearing about some of your interactions with Batman. The dialogue you two had indicated familiarity, his leniency and hesitance spoke of a closeness, and when you teamed up and worked well together it showed that you were accustomed to each other's styles. There are, maybe, five people who match all those requirements and would have a reason for going criminal, and you were the only one that matched up with some of those rumors."

"Anything else?"

Edward shrugged. "Your tombstone was removed from the grounds of Wayne Manor when you two started getting along better."

Jason froze, body instinctively wanting to draw out the machine pistol and his mind screaming for it to wait; he had been unaffiliated with the Family for so long that the habitual job of maintaining the identity smokescreen had slipped. He cleared his throat to cover the reaction, but Nigma had obviously seen it. He merely waved his hand dismissively and rolled his eyes.

"Please, I've known Bruce Wayne was the Batman for years. Big deal."

Jason nearly reeled at this, but he controlled himself enough that all it came out as was a blink. "But...you've always been trying to figure it out. 'The Ultimate Riddle', and all that crap."

"Pfft."

"Answer me dammit!" His composure cracked and he leaned forward, still out of reach but not without options. "This isn't exactly something I can take lightly!"

"Really? Because I could have sworn it was just a joke to you guys." At Jason's murderous glare Edward rolled his eyes again. "Fine, fine: I've known since the fifth time he and I crossed paths."

Jason quickly did the math. "That was fourteen years ago."

"Observant. Yes, I've known this whole time, and I'm pretty sure he knows that as well."

"He would have said something."

"Doubtful. He'd only have suspicions, and even then it would be better that nobody else knew or else something might slip. Far better to let the matter lie as is than provoke something out of it."

"But why haven't you said anything about it? I thought you of all people would be shouting from the rooftops that you'd figured it out."

"Initially, when I was still one of the big names in town, it was about lording it over him, even if he didn't have complete confirmation about it. Then it was about not letting anyone else get the answer without working for it. Then it wasn't really a big matter anymore and I didn't really care much about it." Jason squinted at him. "Well, would **you** rather think of an adversary as some mythical force of justice or as just another human?"

"Pride, then."

"Maybe so, but I don't think he would complain overmuch."

"And what about now? You've said that you're not really a criminal anymore, so where's the incentive to keep the secret?"

Nigma finally looked away, a brief expression of distaste flitting across his face. "The only other people I'm aware of who know the secret are Bane, who has his own pride jacked up to the roof, Joker, who's buried the information where even he can't find it, Hugo Strange, who is very much dead, Catwoman," he gave Jason a look that got the meaning across, "and Commissioner Gordon, who doesn't care. And nobody knows that that they know. So, what do you think people will make of the fact that not even the Riddler, smartest of Batman's foes, could figure out his identity?"

Jason was silent, letting Nigma answer himself.

"They'll think that it is some kind of impossible question. What chance do any of them have of puzzling it out if it stumped me? If they happen to think 'funny how Bruce Wayne always seems to get a new ward a few months before the new Robin shows up', then they'll also be smart enough to think that I would have already thought of that solution and dismissed it. By not saying anything, I've made it into a permanent mystery."

Jason had felt a brief surge of rage and jealousy at the mention of Bruce 'getting' wards, but it slid away easily enough, though the fire still burned in its place. "That doesn't answer my question."

"I thought it did."

"So you really haven't revealed his secret over the years just because you like it to be a riddle?"

"Of course," Nigma declared immediately, but Jason caught the quick glance he had shot to the side - a sign of dishonesty. He remained silent, waiting. Edward seemed to catch on quickly and glowered at him, but Jason didn't budge. Patience won out. "There are some out there...who...really deserve to be taken down by Batman. The ones like Joker, or Hush. The ones who don't hesitate to kill."

"You've killed people." Jason whispered, the unspoken threat giving the simple statement a dangerous edge.

"People have died because of me," Nigma quickly insisted, raising his hands in a measured sign of defense. "I've never put a gun to someone's head and pulled the trigger, or stabbed them over and over again. I've set traps, ones that could be disarmed, but not everyone made it out."

"And you think that justifies what you've done?" Jason still spoke in a whisper, a method Bruce often used to make himself more threatening than if he had shouted.

Again, Nigma looked away, but this time his expression was unreadable, kept carefully blank. "No, I don't. And neither does he. I didn't just decide to give it all up one day on a whim, you know."

But whatever story was behind his retirement was halted as a knock came at the front door. They both looked towards it in surprise, and then suspicion. Without a word, Nigma walked to it and glanced through the peephole. The next second, he was running back towards Jason, trailing a repetition of "Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit".

The door buckled inward as something hit it from the other side, a crack splitting the uniformity of the white paint. Jason had already drawn his automatic and slapped his domino mask back on, but Nigma rushed past him towards the bookshelves. Even as several more impacts further demolished the fortunately reinforced door, he heaved one to the side, revealing an opening formerly hidden behind it. Jason decided a second firefight that day wasn't that desirable and followed Nigma through the door and into a dust heavy janitor's closet. It looked like it had been abandoned years before, and the way they had come through had actually been added by Nigma himself.

Edward pulled the bookshelf back into place with the aid of a handle nailed into the back, once more obscuring the escape route, a burst of dust flying into his face and making him jerk back with a sharp sniff. Jason was suddenly much less annoyed at all those times the Riddler had made off in a secret tunnel or into a getaway vehicle. The only actual door to the closet was locked, but this too had been handled by Nigma as he pulled a duplicate key from the dry mop bucket and eased it into the lightly rusted doorknob and jimmied it until it clicked.

The door stuck in its frame, but a shove with his shoulder opened it all the way and they both exited out into the stairwell, the door placed out of sight under one side of the steps. Edward locked the door again and directed Jason to follow him up. The crutches _clacked_ as he went, but he couldn't imagine it was audible to whoever was after them (or just him, or just Riddler, there really wasn't much way to tell at the moment).

Instead of the roof, Nigma led him only to the floor above, moving quickly down to the apartment located directly above his own. With the same key he had used on his own front door, he opened it up for them. Clearly, he had managed to duplicate the land lord's master key at some point and just used that normally. They entered into an abode that was more personalized that his own, with pictures on the walls and a tasteful aqua paint job on the walls. "Day-shift nurse," Edward murmured as explanation.

Nigma went to an air vent in the corner and knelt down to stick his head close. Jason followed suit, though he didn't get as close so as to accommodate his leg. The echoes carried up from Nigma's apartment poorly, distorted by the turns in the duct work, but it was much better than nothing.

Doors were being slammed and the thud of heavy furniture being overturned was prevalent, but every few seconds a voice would call out affirming that they hadn't found anybody yet. This carried on for half a minute, which was all the time it would take for about three guys to search an apartment of these sizes top to bottom.

"Dammit!"

"He has to be here."

"There's nowhere for him to be hiding."

"Dammit! Call Rick."

Several seconds of silence, presumably while a phone was pulled out and a number dialed.

"He's not here. Are you positive it was them?"

Rather than listen any further, Edward stood up, slipping his glasses on, and walked over to the window overlooking the street. Carefully peeking out the side, he took all of four seconds before walking back. "Yellow van parked down the block in front of the boutique."

Jason didn't respond, only clambering to his feet and following behind Nigma as he led them back into the hall and towards the rickety elevator. Once inside, he used another key to allow access to the basement level. They picked their way through the sparsely filled space in a gray, stuffy darkness, neither wanting to waste the time to find a light switch or potentially reveal themselves to anyone watching.

The back exit yielded to the master key and they were outside, on the north side of the building and out of view of Nigma's apartment. The sky was the yellow of 'golden delicious' apples as the sun continued on its descent to the horizon.

"You've really planned for this," Jason noted idly, fishing for details.

"Everything but a self-destruct system." Edward vaguely tossed a hand over his shoulder, a gesture Jason had to guess meant '_old news_' "If I had gotten the electronics I needed and had had time to finish my security systems, the ones inside would all be in various states of pain and unconsciousness right now, but I didn't and they're not, so we only have about a minute of leeway to work with." They opted to continue down the alley way and emerge onto the nearly deserted sidewalk perpendicular to the street end where the utility van was parked innocuously on the opposite side as the apartment building. The lookout wasn't the driver, which meant they didn't expect to need a hasty exit. "He'll most likely be in the passenger seat, but he'll be looking towards the building, so no fast movements."

Jason frowned at him petulantly. "Since when are you the expert on stealth and strategy?"

"Since I had to keep an entire regiment of Ra's al Ghul's toadies from overrunning the financial district three years back during Scarecrow's attempt at thinning the ranks of his competitors."

Jason didn't gape, he was trained well enough not to, but he vowed to demand a detailed answer later if it proved to be anything other than boastful bullshit.

Nigma fished around under his vest and produced a gray rectangle of plastic with twin nubs of silvery metal on one end – a civilian model taser. He fiddled with it for a second before tucking it up his sleeve backwards, held there only by his inwardly bent wrist. Peeking around the corner again, he paused for a second before slipping from around the corner and casually strolling across the road to the adjoining sidewalk where he turned and meandered towards the idling van.

Jason knew he couldn't follow without being horribly conspicuous with his swinging gait and cumbersome crutches, but letting Nigma take the lead got his goat something fierce. He didn't try to subdue the inclination that the other man was a colossal nerd and wasn't at all suitable for point work; it just wasn't practical!

Fuming slightly, he carefully observed as the former villain walked right past the van, not sparing it a glance. He was obscured from sight for a second before rising up from a crouch in front of the doors on the back. He gave them a hard, impatient knock. "Rick, open up!" He called out in a deeper, tougher voice. It wasn't a very good impression, but it seemed to be enough as the doors swung open, Nigma shooting his hand forward as it did. Even from this distance, Jason heard the thud of a body hitting the inside of the van and the smaller bangs that indicated thrashing limbs.

Not waiting on the Paladin of Puzzles, Red Hood hobbled over quickly, going straight for the opened doors. A large set man - about two hundred and twenty pounds and around five feet seven inches, wearing gray slacks and a purple and white track suit with faded white Nike's and a cheap sports watch, roughly forty years of age - was laying limp as a rag against the right side of the van, uncomfortably curved over the half circle of metal set there to accommodate the wheel underneath. Nigma was wedged between the front seats and busy rummaging around for anything of interest, anything that could lend some knowledge about who these people were and why they had attacked The Riddler and/or The Red Hood.

It had crossed Jason's mind that they might have been sent as retribution for the interference at the mall earlier that day. It was entirely possible that they had seen him enter Nigma's car, or else had found security footage of such, and had tracked them here, but this somehow didn't seem right to him. His gut was telling him that this was unrelated- and that brought a bevy of questions and problems he needed answered as soon as possible.

Leaning forward on his crutches, ignoring the pinching in his armpits, he felt around on Rick's person. His wallet had only a driver's license, thirty seven dollars in bills, two credit cards and a crumpled receipt from an auto-body shop, all of which he took. His jacket pockets turned up one packet of cigarettes, store brand and with only three sticks left, a new packet still in its plastic wrap, and a scratched lighter. A walkie-talkie was on the floor behind the drivers seat, either dropped or thrown there, and a static squabble from someone on the other end was barking through it.

"Five seconds Nigma," he warned, looking back towards the front doors of the apartment building, hand reaching to the shoulder holster under his leather jacket.

"Don't bother, we're done," Edward informed as he scrambled back, a wad of papers clenched in both hands. He dropped the small distance back to the street and started to hurry towards the opposite block when the doors to his building flew open and the men who had stormed his apartment came rushing out, most likely due to Rick's radio silence.

Nigma yelped and sprinted back to the van even as guns were pulled. Gunshots boomed in the formerly quiet neighborhood, instantly turning it into a battlefield with the _cha-cha-cha-cha-cha_ report of sub-machineguns. Jason threw one crutch down to free up a hand for his own automatic pistol as he took cover behind the corner of the van, doors thrown closed as he did so. He waited until Nigma practically threw himself next to him before returning fire, reluctant to put the former villain in a crossfire if he could help it. The goons, all of whom were dressed casually like they were just going to the drug store, had quickly taken any cover they could find, whether it was the dented mailbox, lightposts, or the car parked at the curb nearby. Jason took a headcount and came up with six men total, all armed and most likely with much more ammunition than he had left.

Bullets pinged off of and, more often, ripped through the van's sides as the assailants popped out of cover to fire off short bursts before ducking back just as fast. It was smart, and that hinted at some form of actual training. Few street level gangs bothered with weapons training, preferring quantity over quality when it came to open altercations. That information, plus the HK UMPs they were wielding, suggested reasonable backing and practical leadership. This was worrisome.

"I don't suppose Rick had a gun on him?" He looked over to Nigma, who was folding the papers he had gotten and cramming them down the front of his vest. A furtive shake of the head was his only answer. Shrugging, he leaned out just enough to fire several times into the parked car two of them were behind, setting off the alarm as the windows facing him shattered. That left him with nine rounds in the extended magazine and twenty in the only spare he had on his belt. Not desirable circumstances, no. He had several shuriken, smoke pellets, three knives, a set of lock picks and the homing beacon that he was to activate only under the direst of situations – you know, everything he always left the house with, but not really very helpful now. Even if he could flank them, they still had numbers and ammo on their side. Brute force wasn't an option. Time for trickery.

"Do you know how to jack a car?" He had to raise his voice over the thundering of return fire. Nigma opened his mouth, but he apparently figured out the answer to his question before he spoke it and realization dawned in his gray eyes. He nodded, and Jason handed him his straight knife, a Kershaw camping blade that he carried more for utility purposes than as a weapon, usually. The Riddler scuttled over the drivers door, pulling it open and slinking inside, always careful to keep his head out of sight of the gunmen. Jason emptied his magazine toward the guy behind the mailbox, satisfied when one or two bullets went clear through the thin metal killed him before he knew what happened.

As he calmly reloaded, Jason listened to the empty cracking sound of the van's ceramic steering column being torn away with knife and fingers. As anyone who'd seen '_Die Hard: With A Vengeance_' could attest, hot wiring wasn't the only way to start a car without a key, though that process was the neatest but also the slowest. Granted, it wasn't exactly like it was in the movie, but Zeus hadn't been too far off with his technique, and it seemed that Nigma knew enough not to waste time with delicateness.

Several -long- seconds passed, Jason pressing his back to the van and counting shots fired, before the vehicle coughed itself to life, white exhaust shooting out from the pipe by his good leg. He could hear the thugs shouting in alarm and anger, but he ignored them as he swung his crutch onto the roof and hooked it around the empty rack, hoisting himself up by the flimsy metal. "Reverse! Reverse! Reverse!"

Nigma followed his orders and slammed a foot down onto the accelerator, shooting them backwards. Rick slid up against the front seats, unresponsive. Jason pulled himself up slightly to fire over the van at the mooks who had immediately abandoned cover, hitting two more of them as they tried to chase after them (five rounds left). Nigma risked poking his head up to lean out his window and try and see where he was going, just in time to jerk the wheel hard to avoid a sedan that had turned onto their street, catching a glimpse of the startled face of the nurse who lived directly above him as they passed. Jason was nearly thrown off by the wild swerve, but his hold on the surprisingly durable crutch was steely and he managed to plant his right foot against the side to avoid banging his wounded leg against it.

Unfortunately, the evasive maneuver sent them onto the sidewalk, and a derelict newspaper vendor was crashed into and driven over before Nigma could try and straighten their path. The vendor must have done something as it tore across the undercarriage, because a sickening shriek of metal on metal and a fountain of sparks suddenly spewed from under the lip of the automobile. Nigma was pounding desperately on the brake, but every attempt was met only by a sharp grinding noise that definitely wasn't normal. The steering wheel locked in his hands and he was powerless to stop it from slamming into a telephone pole, airbag deploying in his face and windshield bulging towards him as thousands of cracks rendered it opaque. Rick made a muted thud as he was thrown into the closed doors.

Jason couldn't hold on this time and was thrown clear, landing painfully on his shoulders and flipping over as his body continued to tumble. He tried to protect his leg, by tucking it in close to his chest, but he could feel it as the bullet wound reopened and blood spurted against the bandages, staining them through with crimson. His gun had vanished with the crash.

Much too used to pain for this to stop him, he rolled onto his knees and stood with gritted teeth. He limped as fast as he could back to the van, wrenching the driver's door open as he pulled out his karambit. He reached around the inflated airbag and slashed the side facing away from him, letting the chemicals vent harmlessly. Nigma was conscious and quickly scrabbled his way out from the deflated bag and staggered from the van, looking shaken but alert. Gunshots drew their attention back to the remaining three gunmen, who were sprinting towards them and had covered half the street already.

This would have been the clincher for most other people, but Edward Nigma was not a man without options or contingencies and was most certainly not 'other people'. Rather than parking his dingy car in the parking lot next to his building, he had instead insisted on finding a spot on the next street over, completely out of sight from his building or anywhere near it. It so happened that they now had had a straight shot to it from the wrecked van.

Jason grabbed Nigma's shoulder to give himself balance and they hobbled to the car as fast as they could, Jason throwing down his smoke pellets as they did to buy them a few extra seconds. Their breathing was loud in the post-collision silence, and their steps seemed to echo against the buildings on either side of the street, maddeningly distant.

Falling into the little car, it was almost comical that they were leaving in much the same situation as they had left, but neither were amused. Nigma pulled his key out (just how many total he had on him, there was no way to tell) and started the engine, but didn't immediately peel away – instead turning in his seat to rummage through the scrapyard that was his entire backseat.

"What the hell?! We need to get out of here!" Jason shouted, trying to push Nigma back towards the wheel. The man of questions resisted, continuing to dig, and left them sitting there for what felt like plenty of time for the thugs to catch up. Jason started to feel slightly panicked as the situation suddenly nose-dived, but before he could resort to desperate measures Nigma turned back 'round and shoved something into the Red Hood's hands.

It was a metal, rectangular box, about the size of a toolbox and just as hefty. A megaphone was protruding from the front, flanked on either side by two compartments with eight squares on their fronts, visually similar to ice cube trays on their sides, each square separate from the rest and held in place by a hinge on either the top or bottom, kept from swinging freely by the thin bar that intersected each grid. Plastic handles like a snowmobiles had been screwed into either side, wiring running down the lengths and back into the box, and at the top of both handles was a clear plastic button.

"What is-"

"Point it out your window, fire when I say so, and close your eyes when you do," Nigma barked as he swung them from the parking spot and, instead of making a one-eighty turn, drove them straight ahead, which would bring bring them right past the van and directly into sight for the three thugs chasing them.

With no time for anything else, Jason cranked his window down (manual windows? How old was this thing?) and jammed the device out into the open, having to force it slightly as it proved too wide for the space provided. For a brief second as they picked up speed, he suddenly flashed to all the times he'd seen henchmen using the peculiar inventions of their employers against himself and Batman, and would have groaned at realizing just what he must look like right then.

"Now!"

At the command, he instinctively pressed down on both buttons and turned his head away as they drove right in front of the goons, their guns aimed and ready.

What happened next was something that needed to be seen to fully comprehend. With the press of the right button, an earsplitting wail erupted from the megaphone like the worst feedback imaginable and amplified to a severe extent. With the press of the left button, twin charges barely large enough to crack cement detonated and ignited the homemade mixture of magnesium and ammonium perchlorate nestled behind the two grid patterned boxes. The resultant explosion sent a blast of blinding light, more tortuous noise at an insane volume, and countless plastic shard flechettes right at their attempted killers.

They were all screaming and clutching at their ears and eyes as blood seeped from dozens of thin cuts across their bodies before Jason and Nigma had gone out of sight.

Jason, slightly stunned himself, carefully pulled the device back through the window, wary of the heated front end and put it on the floor in the back. He was silent, letting the ringing in his ears fade away while he gathered his thoughts. First order of business: "The hell was that?"

"Boom Box," Nigma answered without a trace of irony. "Complete sensory overload. Perfect for getaways."

Jason nodded absently, glancing down at his leg, bandages soaked red. "Where are we going?"

"We just need to get away from there as quickly as we can, though I suspect that whatever safehouse you can think of might be a good place to head."

"And why is that?" Jason turned his head back to glare at the older man, annoyance making a reappearance.

"Because of this." From where he had stuffed them, Nigma pulled out the papers retrieved from the van and handed them over without looking away from the road. Jason took them and unfolded the stack, noting that the first page was a close up of a map someone had printed out, Riddler's apartment circled in red and labeled in black. Second page was a copy of several pictures of the man entering and leaving the apartment, third was of several more taken through the window of rooms visible. Fourth seemed to be an unrelated page of advertisements from the _Gotham Times_. Fifth was an old mugshot from several years back, Nigma scowling around a black eye and a bruised jaw, but as clearly identifiable as he was today. Sixth had a set of times written out in pen, handwriting cramped and small.

The seventh turned out to be a thin manila envelope, metal prongs unused and "Bentley's Subject" scrawled in the top corner. Mostly above the fold crease with just a corner bent, a stick-it note had been slapped crookedly on the front. The words were in a different hand, with higher stems and shorter arches, and there were only four of them: "Target both, act fast."

He opened the envelope and pulled out several pictures, actual pictures this time and not photo-copies. He felt his stomach drop when he realized that they were of him, snapped from a distance during several different incidents where he'd been on the same side as the Bat Family. The four in back were from the mall, taken from the cameras: him fighting the street toughs, a closeup of his face wearing only a domino mask for anonymity, limping out of the food court with a hand clutching his bloodied thigh, and finally him sitting across from Riddler in the Greek restaurant.

The edges of the files crinkled in his fingers as he lowered his hands to his lap, furious eyes glaring out the window at the passing cityscape. "They were fucking watching us. Marking us!"

Nigma nodded as they slowed down to stop behind two other cars at a red light. "It seems that way, yes."

"And they decided to come after us now? Just out of the blue?"

"I doubt that. They knew that you were injured, and they assumed that we were affiliated, so they though to kill to birds with one stone." Jason's twitch at the saying went unnoticed. "For whatever reason, they didn't send many men, so they were either pressed for numbers, on a time limit, didn't think they'd need anymore, or any number of possibilities, but I do not believe this is just a small gang or group." They were moving again.

Jason looked through all the pictures again. The ones of Nigma could have been taken at any time, by anyone with a disposable camera. But the ones of himself in fights were either from municipal cameras or high quality cameras that could take split-second shots of him in motion and from a large distance. To a trained eye, it was discernible not only that a completely different grade of camera was used for both of them, but the method of the photography was different as well, suggesting multiple photographers. Not just anyone could lay their hands on stuff like this, and that certainly hinted once more toward considerable financial backing or, as Nigma suggested, a dedicated sect that had been monitoring them for an unknown amount of time and apparently as separate targets until today. Both options were bad, and the dangers behind both were too great to ignore.

"So, are they just after us for no good reason, or are they aiming for guys on the gray side of the law?"

"Neither, I think." Nigma glanced away from the road to pluck out the out of place newspaper page and set it on top of the pile. He pointed to an add that had been highlighted but Jason had missed because it was on the flip side: "**Nigma's Inquisitorial Services! Have a conundrum that doesn't seem to have an answer? Find yourself stumped over a mystery without a lead? Need a mind unlike any other to reveal the unseen? Freelance Detective ready for hire pending case details**", followed by a landline number.

"You sound like a fortune teller with flair and a thesaurus," Jason mused aloud. Nigma scowled at that, feeling defensive.

"They wouldn't let me post an add that actually included a riddle because they thought it might look like a clue for one of my schemes, so I dumbed it down a bit. It was worse than the time I tried to pass a bus ride by asking for a riddle from each passenger and they ended up thinking it was a bomb threat and called SWAT." Jason chuckled darkly at that. "Regardless of any of that," Riddler rushed on, slightly flushed with embarrassment, "the fact that they have this ad tells me something important."

"That you really shouldn't go into advertisement?"

Nigma gave the grinning Hood a scathing look. "It tells me that they - whoever 'they' are – only started to observe me after I went legit. It just so happens that my first couple of cases were usually involved in some way with one of Batman's own, and, after he and I bumped into each other a few times, a rumor got out that he and I collaborate on crime solving."

Jason shook his head at the idiocy of that assumption. Some people saw connections where there never were any, and they then barfed their 'truth' all over the internet like a pie eating contest hit by the flu. "So they started watching you when you stopped making deathtraps, big whoop. What's the connection?"

"Come now, you can surely see it for yourself. Look at your pictures again." Jason didn't like the slight arrogance in Nigma's voice, but he diligently pulled the pictures of him back to the top. He studied them carefully, trying to spot some hidden detail that was only there to those that looked closely enough, but they didn't reveal anything he hadn't noticed at first glance. There were the ones at the mall, and the ones of him fighting. He couldn't see much that really suggested exactly which fights they had been, but he had the red Bat symbol on his chest in them, so they could only have been in the last year. Had he done something large enough in that time to get the attention of these people, besides just being a member of the...the...

"Oh shit."

Nigma nodded grimly in agreement. "Correct: they have only been monitoring us since we both left our lives of crime. More specifically: they have only been monitoring us since we became affiliated with Batman."

Jason finished the conclusion. "They're targeting allies of the Bat."

"And when there is no one left to help..."

"They'll target him directly." Jason was quiet for a moment, watching a scenario play out in his head. He didn't like what he saw. "Get on the highway and head towards Conroy; I've got a place there we can catch out breath and stitch me back up."

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